


Scatterpoint

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Book 8: Blood of Tyrants, Gen, Memory Loss, Seizures, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the effects of head-injuries are not always readily apparent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scatterpoint

Green Zhao Lung dragons flit through the camp borders with supplies while the troops settle in for the night. Several _niru_ detach and continue flying; they will likely return to their own posts nearby. Laurence does not doubt that fresh dragons will replace them before the group has left China.

The number of dragons in this nation is almost an absurdity; for not the first time he wonders if the Jiaqing Emperor is not merely lending his forces to the war to present a show of strength. To him two-hundred dragons is merely a drop in the nation's forces.

Temeraire is sleeping heavily, and Laurence stands near the bend of his foreleg watching the setting of the sun when Granby approaches. “You are looking more the part of their prince every day – and by that I mean you look more maudlin. Come have a drink with us.”

“You had best hope General Chu does not hear that you have liquor.” Granby grimaces predictably. “Yes, thank you, I will just be a moment.” The other captains are visible by a small fire near Messoria's side.

Granby departs, and Laurence reaches out to touch Temeraire's side. He looks up.

“The moon does look very nice,” Temeraire says.

Startled, Laurence turns back around. The Celestial is not looking at him, but rather gazing thoughtfully at the thin cloud-cover. “Still, it is not like you to stay so late,” the dragon notes. “Are you quite well, Laurence?”

“Yes, my dear, only – yes.” He runs a hand briefly along his mouth, strangely dry. The stars shine down at them; all the fires have been snuffed and the camp is quiet. “Have you seen Granby?”

“I expect he is sleeping – you should sleep as well. I do not think General Chu will be any easier on us tomorrow.”

* * *

 

“You did not show last night,” Granby says. “You should relax more, Will.”

He does not seem to expect a response. The dragons are learning to bear the hard flights better, but even Iskierka doesn't have enough energy to do more than grumble a little and snort moodily at the small dragons that flit around camp with their vats for dinner.

He sits down with Granby, Chenery, and Berkley for whist while they wait. Granby has some trouble managing the cards one-handed but waves away their offers of assistance. “Ah, damn,” Berkley sighs over his hand, and only shrugs; his transparency means he is not an excellent player, though he at least makes a cheerful one.

Chenery begins to lament over one of his midshipmen - “The fool only just realized there were women aboard those dragons and tried to stumble out to find one last night, but he fell into the tent of some male cooks instead and they were not pleased - “

Berkley scowls again at his hand. Laurence looks down to inspect his own cards.

“Laurence? Are you going to play?”

Laurence startles. Chenery is snapping his fingers, clearly entertained. His story seems to have concluded, and everyone is staring at Laurence. “I beg your pardon,” he says, confused. Everyone has put their cards in the middle; without a thought he does the same.

“Bad luck, that,” says Granby cheerfully. He sweeps up the lot while Chenery shakes a fist toward him dramatically. “Another round?”

* * *

 

“Miss Pemberton has been educating me very well,” Emily Roland says earnestly. “I do not need extra lessons at all, Captain, I assure you.”

“Yes, indeed; and I suppose that she is utterly irredeemable when acting as a chaperone, or when you must attend parties, but that this is the area in which she excels?”

Roland looks shifty. “...Yes,” she says.

“Well, I am sure she will be grateful for your confidence.” He cannot quite keep the dryness from his voice. “Nevertheless, one cannot be too educated. We will work on your math again.”

Her groans can be heard halfway across camp.

They are working on sines and cosines – which, Laurence reminds her patiently, are very important to figuring out a course in the air or by sea – when Roland suddenly starts shaking his arm like a mad person.

He looks down at her with alarm. “What is it?”

She stops and squints at him. “You did not move!” She accuses.

Laurence blinks, bewildered. “I do not understand what you mean.”

“You just sat and stared and stared at the paper, even when I called your name.”

He cannot account for this. “It is warm – perhaps I am fatigued,” he concedes doubtfully. This seems to mollify her somewhat. “My apologies for any inattention – but that will not let you escape finishing this set of problems.”

This statement erases the rest of her concern. Roland sighs.

* * *

 

“I am glad we will be able to help in the war again,” Temeraire says, “But it sad to be leaving China once more, Laurence. I will miss our friends here, and Mei especially.”

It is early morning and they are flying in steady formation. They will soon be outside China's borders entirely and begin to pierce the outskirts of Russia. For not the first time Laurence feels a twinge of sympathy for his companion. He wonders what it would be like to feel foreign to the nation of his own birth. “I have said before, my dear, that when the war is concluded I will be glad to come with you to China whenever you please. And I am sure Mei and the Emperor would both be gratified by your presence.”

“I cannot imagine the war ever ending,” Temeraire muses. “But I suppose it must end one day. What do people do, Laurence, when there is no fighting anywhere?”

“Many people never see fighting even during the war; I expect you will find yourself sufficiently diverted.” If they are not desperately needed Laurence suspects that England will gladly see the backs of them despite Temeraire's status as a prime heavy-weight. “We could explore if you like – we have not seen much of middle Europe still, or most of the Americas. Would you enjoy that?”

Temeraire says nothing.

Laurence waits for a reply, but after a minute passes he watches the back of Temeraire's head and frowns. “My dear, did you hear me?”

“Yes, of course. I said I should like very much to explore; I would like to see how the dragons arrange matters in America, and perhaps we could see John Wampanoag again. Also I would like to see Italy; the language is very nice. Did _you_ not hear _me,_ Laurence?”

“The wind is rather muffling, I suppose,” although there is very little wind at all. “Speed up a little if you will. We are starting to lag behind.”

* * *

 

The rhythmic beating of Temeraire's wings has grown tedious. The aviators can only run so many drills, and Temeraire is not often inclined to conversation at the laborious speed of General Chu's command. Laurence watches over Temeraire's side as rice fields and small towns fall away behind them. The organized farms make rows between streams and pathways that snake between the greenery.

At one point they pass overhead of an ornate temple. His legs are starting to twinge from the long hours spent immobile. He unhooks one carabiner and easily makes the transfer to another part of the harness, smoothly moving to the edge of Temeraire's shoulder to see better -

“Sir!”

With a lurch Laurence is staring up at Ferris' frightened face. Clouds spin behind the man's head; someone is yelling in the background. It takes a moment for Laurence to register the grip of the Lieutenant's hands around his limp arm.

A moment later this clutch fails, and then he is falling.

Temeraire cries out with alarm. Somewhere among the tumble of movement – blue skies, flurrying red dragons bellowing at one another, and Temeraire tearing at him from above – Laurence registers that his mouth tastes like copper, but he is not bleeding.

His mouth tastes like copper every time he forgets.

Temeraire's talons close around his waist with infinite delicacy, and then half a dozen _Shao Lung_ are circling them like panicked hawks, Chu at the head, demanding to know if someone has tried to kill the prince.

They set up camp early.

“He is fine, and you may stop being such a nursemaid,” Pettiforth tells the anxious Celestial half an hour later. “You may relay that to General Chu, if you like, so he will quit worrying too; I am more interested in _why_ you fell, Captain, then the effects after.” Ferris has plainly made his report.

“I do not recall falling,” Laurence must admit, and only after these words are said aloud does the implication sink in.

Indeed, some alarm registers through everyone nearby. “Do not recall?” Temeraire exclaims. “But, Laurence...”

Pettiforth quells him with a sharp look. “It is perhaps nothing,” he says. “Or perhaps merely a symptom of the excitement; I suppose you may be prone to memory-disruptions now. Merely tell me if you notice any more problems.” The surgeon waves him away.

His attempts to help set up camp are firmly rebuffed, and finally he takes refuge with Temeraire and watches the activity. He cannot help but be aware of the occasional anxious glances he attracts, which only strengthens his resolve to keep the most disconcerting part of day's incident to himself.

Not only does he not remember anything about the fall; he cannot even remember getting into Temeraire's harness this morning.

And he very much hopes that someone will mention why they are flying to Russia.

* * *

 

“Are you quite well, Laurence?” Little asks. The question startles him; he turns around and accepts a cup of coffee when the man presses it into his hand. “You looked very distant for a moment.”

“I was only thinking,” Laurence says. In truth he does not remember thinking of anything, but he feels a bit fatigued. Perhaps he should take the opportunity to rest while the army is standing down. “I trust Immortalis has fully recovered from his recent wounds?” Perhaps this hint will inspire Little to discuss the cause of those injuries; however was the Reaper hurt in China?

“Oh, yes, thank you. There are thousands of these red dragons, but none of them match Immortalis.” Little smiles with rare pride. Laurence nods politely, and then -

“Are you with us?” Someone asks. “There, see, his eyes. Don't move yet, Roland - “

A blurred shape moves across his vision. It is Berkley, who to Laurence's great bewilderment holds his shoulders with a steely grip. Blood blooms across his lip and dribbles down his cheeks. Then he realizes his eyes are wet with tears, his head sweat-soaked. Little stares at him from farther away, and Midshipman Roland is holding his legs – he is on the ground, for whatever reason, lying flat and supine on his back. Everyone looks very pale.

Tharkay's voice rises from somewhere unseen. “Stay back, Temeraire!” he snaps. “Let Pettiforth through. You can do no good for him.”

He tries to speak but his tongue is like cloth. Berkley shakes him lightly and his eyes try to fly right from his skull. “Are you back now?” the man demands.

“Stop that,” Pettiforth snaps. “And get off him, all of you, that will not help.” Laurence barely registers a change as his limbs are freed. “Well, this is no mystery, at least; how does your head feel?”

“I beg your pardon?” He manages. The words come out haltingly.

Pettiforth reaches out to press his skull; Temeraire growls from somewhere nearby. “Hmm,” is all the surgeon comments. “Inner bruising of some sort, then. It should not be surprising after that memory loss; seizures are not too uncommon after bad head injuries. But this long after – no, that is no good. It may happen again.”

“A seizure,” he parrots. But Pettiforth doesn't criticize his slowness.

“Well, hopefully it will not kill you,” he says blandly. “Up now, can you stand? Lying in the sun will hardly benefit - “

* * *

 

He cannot in good conscience conceal matters of importance from the other officers – not when his memory may become utterly unreliable at any moment. He chooses to begin with Granby, eventually taking the man aside reluctantly.

“Something you needed?” Granby asks, not looking particularly concerned.

“I must confess something,” he says. “Since leaving China I have on more than one occasion forgotten perfectly mundane matters; I fear my memories are still affected.”

Granby's expression does not change. “Ah, that,” he says. “Yes, we know.”

“ - You... know?”

“I am sure it feels like you have been hiding something,” Granby says, not without sympathy, “but you have told this to us a few times, Will.”

* * *

 

Someone sits with him near Temeraire's shoulders whenever they go aloft now; the crew rotates and watches him from a distance as though to be sure he will not go mad and fling himself from the harness-straps.

Even Tharkay takes a turn, although somehow his cool assessment rankles rather less. Possibly this is because he always appears to be judging everyone on a regular basis anyway.

Temeraire keeps twisting his neck around to look at Laurence. “My dear, the wind will not knock me away; pray do not be so concerned.”

“Oh, but you did fall, so do not say you will not,” Temeraire says. Nevertheless he straightens his head and restrains himself to only sneaking back a glance every few minutes.

“I knew a man in Macao who had seizures,” says Tharkay abruptly. “He did not have the slightest problem with his memory, but they put him in the asylum nonetheless.”

Laurence cannot quite repress a grimace.

“What is an asylum?” Temeraire asks.

“A place where the ill can be helped,” Laurence says slowly.

“It is a prison,” Tharkay corrects him. “Except worse, because prisoners are sometimes treated with civility, and asylums only pretend to be civil when very rich people come to visit.”

“There are places _worse_ than prisons?”

“I am sure if the government learns Laurence has a malady of the mind they will delight at the chance to lock him away. Though,” and here Tharkay's voice goes ironic, “I suppose it cannot be so hard to visit the inmates, Temeraire; sometimes the wealthy pay to gawk at them, like circus animals.”

“I will never let anyone take Laurence away, never.”

“It will not happen, dear – and there is no need to talk of that,” he tells Tharkay.

But Tharkay only observes him grimly. “It is a thought you had best consider – where will you go from here? You had best think on the matter while you still can.”

* * *

 

“We could send you back and apply to the Chinese for the assistance of their surgeons,” Harcourt suggests one day. “Surely they would have their best physicians see to your case.”

“Surely, yes,” Pettiforth replies. “We can experiment a bit if you like, Captain Laurence, but I can't say any physician is likely to be able to help with trauma of the brain. Not of such a dramatic nature of this. I suppose I could try a trephination - “

“You want to drill a hole in his head?” Harcourt demands, and Laurence winces.

“Some scholars have suggested that it works very well in curing seizures.”

“I suppose he cannot seize if he dead, certainly.”

Pettiforth looks offended – as though it is _his_ brain they are speaking about. “I imagine I could at least avoid killing him,” he says.

“Thank you, but I believe I will decline,” Laurence says wearily. “The initial memory lapse was much more serious than any effects since; perhaps time will solve the matter.”

“No, I think not,” Pettiforth tells him bluntly. “Not when months have passed already and your condition is ever-changing. Such matters tend to deteriorate, not improve.”

Harcourt looks at the surgeon severely. “But we may always hope,” she says.

“For all the good it does,” Pettiforth sighs.

* * *

 

Laurence has certainly accompanied Temeraire on many single flights. But to be on his back without a harness, and with only one other person aboard, is strange indeed; to sit side-by-side with an unknown man of Oriental descent, who he cannot recognize, unnerves him greatly.

He does not remember ascending with this man; he certainly does not know why Temeraire is flying very casually above dozens of fire-red dragons, in unfamiliar terrain, as though they are on holiday. Only the familiar sight of their own formation among the convoy on the ground reassures him. He would like to question Temeraire, but the presence of the stranger acts as a restraint.

“Is your head better?” The very man asks presently. “We still have more of Pettiforth's remedy, if you like.” He speaks with a British accent.

“No, thank you,” Laurence replies shortly. The stranger side-eyes him but does not comment.

They sit in uneasy silence for the next hour.

* * *

 

“As an aviator one expects to be away from home for awhile – but to be so long gone from England stretches it a bit,” Granby complains the next evening over coffee. “I will be glad to see my family again sometime – Lavern and Magdalen have asked to see Iskierka the next time I'm about.”

“Who?”

“Do you not remember?” Granby asks. The words are casual but just a little too intent; he watches Laurence closely.

Laurence startles. “Your cousins,” he recalls. “ - you have only mentioned them once before,” and Granby relaxes.

After a pause, Laurence says quietly, “I am sorry about this – all of this. It is unfair to all of you.”

“Oh, hell,” Granby says. “It is not your fault, and I cannot imagine – it changes nothing, Laurence - “

“It does,” he snaps. Laurence pauses, embarrassed by his own outrage, but Granby only waits. So he continues. “It will – it must change everything. Even when I am well – when I think I am well – that may only be my perception of matters. For the present I am here as Temeraire's companion, and necessary because of the Chinese dragons; what of after?”

Granby pauses. “You will always have Temeraire.”

“Yes, and that is a comfort to me.” Laurence looks down at his hands. “I wonder if it will not become a tragedy for him.”

* * *

 

“There will be fighting soon, Laurence,” Temeraire says.

“If ever we get this Kutuzov to meet with us,” Laurence agrees dryly.

“I wish you would stay behind.”

Laurence stiffens. “...You cannot ask that of me,” he says quietly.

“No – I am aware. You will not do it, of course, but you _should_ stay... Laurence, it is not safe.”

“War is never safe.”

“But before you would not have fallen from my back,” Temeraire says.

Laurence closes his eyes briefly. “My dear. I find it exceedingly likely that this will be our last action together – so let us have that.” He tries at lightness; “And I assure you, I shall do my very best to remember who we are fighting.”

But Temeraire only sighs.

* * *

 

“And what is your opinion?” Tharkay asks.

Laurence meets his stare blankly. He looks down. He is wearing his aviators uniform, but Tharkay is wearing Laurence's own Chinese robes. The contradiction makes his head spin. Next to them two men in foreign uniforms, American and Dutch, look to Laurence expectantly. When he continues to clutch for a response they lose interest and move away.

“I apologize,” Tharkay says. “You are not typically at a loss for words.”

His throat feels dry. “ - I – I do not recall coming here,” he admits lowly. The lights seem impossibly bright; behind them someone shouts something in Russian and a small crowd bursts into laughter. “I do not - “ He looks around. Most of the attendants seem to be Russian: why?

Something undefinable flickers in Tharkay's eyes. “Ah,” he says succinctly. He twists around to pluck a flute of water from the tray of a passing server, then touches Laurence's elbow. “Come; I will tell you what you have missed.”

* * *

 

Temeraire stands and shakes in his harness. “All lies well,” he declares. The crew immediately scrambles aboard. Around them the Chinese dragons are already heading off to the long-anticipated battle.

Midshipman Roland approaches Laurence. “Do you recall our earlier conversation, Sir?” She asks warily.

“Yes,” he replies. “Up front, then, and if something is amiss you must not hesitate.”

“Yes, Sir.”

* * *

 

“Do you have no response, Captain? Your manners are much changed.”

Snow falls lightly from white, billowy clouds. Light glints off the sabers of two ranks of French soldiers, all of them curiously garbed in motley uniforms clearly modified to stave off the worst of the bitter cold. Ice seems to sap away all the warmth of Laurence's feet; he cannot quite feel his cheeks. He wonders if he has fainted standing up, but no; even that would not explain how he has come to stand here, evidently in winter, staring at a French officer who is clearly waiting for some reply.

“Well?” The man asks, quickly becoming impatient.

There is a furious roar from behind the officer. Laurence does not know how he missed it before, but four dragons are struggling some distance away. Two Chequered Nettles and a Parnassian are fight to hold down a black heavy-weight. The breed looks strangely familiar, though he can't claim to know it's name. It looks vaguely Oriental. As this thought passes through his mind the dragon raises its head and cries, “Laurence!”, sending a jolt through his stomach.

He turns his head around. “I beg your pardon,” he says. “I can give no answer.”

This does not seem to suffice. “You must speak more plainly.”

“I cannot speak plainly,” Laurence says. “I... – can you restate the question?”

The Frenchman pauses, confused. “What - “

“I will not escape, I swear it!” The black dragon cries. “Only pray make him sit, please, in case he seizes - “

The man turns around at that. “What do you mean?” he demands.

The French heavy-weights – for clearly the black dragon is some enemy of theirs – relent somewhat and the foreign one speaks rapidly. “Please, oh, when he goes very still so long like that he sometimes shakes and shakes awfully right after – it is very dangerous, and Doctor Pettiforth says he must be on the ground when it happens. He has done it since he hit his head in Nagasaki.”

The man frowns for a long moment. Then he turns and lifts his hand.

Laurence jerks away as two soldiers grab his arms and force him into a sitting position on the ground. He is made to wait there awhile. The dragon is saying something else, but Laurence finds his attention distracted as he notices a new perplexity. Why is his coat green? Beneath his worn uniform snow melts away slowly. His hands shiver, but his head spins with a drunken warmth.

“Captain.”

The same officer is addressing him. It rankles to be spoken to in such a position, but Laurence ignores his discomfort to watch the stranger.

“What is the date and year?”

Laurence frowns. There is no harm in answering, however. “August 18th, though I suppose I may have missed a few days.” Indeed, possibly a little longer; something strange is happening here. “1802.”

The man regards him silently.

“That is worse than before,” the dragon says.

“Yet you do not seem surprised.”

“No. He will remember eventually – He always remembers.” The dragons pauses. “Always,” he repeats.

The officer turns toward the dragon. “Will you give your word that you will not fight us again?”

“You will let us go?”

“With your vow, yes - I will hold you to it.” His voice has a note of warning.

The creature looks pained. “For Laurence, then. Only do not hurt him...”

“I am not some barbarian who will savage a lunatic,” the stranger retorts. “And you, Captain, do you give your word of honor?”

Laurence stares at this man in his plain coat and unmarked dress. “Sir,” he says helplessly. “I have not the slightest notion of what is happening.”

The Frenchman only regards him for a moment and then nods. “Yes, that is plain. I suppose Temeraire's word shall do, then. You are free.”

At once the guards at his sides step away. Laurence rises unsteadily, staring around himself. Some of the soldiers are eyeing him almost with embarrassment.

“It is a shame,” the man comments as the black dragon sweeps around him protectively. “You were a good soldier once.”

* * *

 

A cow lows quietly not a hundred paces away. Laurence watches it blankly. He turns his head to see a herd of the creatures moving in a slow, steady progression down a hillside.

He is sitting beneath a tree, quite comfortably, half-concealed from the noonday sun under the leaves of a myrtle tree. On an adjacent hill a magnificent pavilion of smooth sandstone overlooks a valley. Three small dragons watch the progression of the herd while two more bully the cows along.

Laurence turns his head again. He blinks in surprise. “Tharkay?” he asks. “Where are we?”

If Tharkay is disconcerted by this question it does not show. “Australia,” he says. Tharkay is leaning against a second tree with a small book in hand. There are a few lines on his face but he does not seem tired.“Temeraire is visiting Tharunka at the harbor, if you were wondering.”

Laurence was not. “Why are we here?”

“Because the weather is very pleasant,” Tharkay says. “Do not fret about it too much, I beg you.”

Laurence looks over the valley. He remembers this place now, but it is much transformed from their sojourn – when? Months ago, before the pardon? “We were headed to China,” he says. The words are automatic. They taste wrong in his mouth.

For a moment Tharkay says nothing. “Are you not comfortable here?” he asks. “Is this not sufficient?”

Two ferals flit overhead bickering at each other. A dozen cows break free from the mass of the herd and try vainly to stampede to their escape before being brought back to the center by another dragon. It is perhaps not anyone's idea of tranquility. “It is a very excellent place,” Laurence says. “And I could not wish for better company.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few grand mal seizures here, mostly implied, but for the most part Laurence experiences petit mal seizures that induce episodic memory loss. Usually people don't even notice petit mal seizures occurring – and they can happen up to a hundred times a day - but extensive memory afflictions are possible to my understanding.


End file.
